


Little Brother

by mysconesaredelicious



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Chaptered, Darktalia, Gen, Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysconesaredelicious/pseuds/mysconesaredelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something has gone very wrong with America. He's taken England hostage and delights in torture. What happened to that adorable little child England used to know? Can he be fixed? Or will this spiral out of control and into a worldwide problem? The questions torture him as he stands alone in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Contains torture and blood

At first, he could see nothing in the darkness. Rather, he was only aware of the cold metal cuffing his wrists and ankles to the wall, and the throbbing of his head. When he grimaced, something cracked along his face, which he realized was dried blood. The metallic taste in his mouth confirmed that, which was what he felt next.  
 _What happened…?_  
He struggled to recall the events leading up to this, but his memory was hazy. Obviously, he’d been struck in the head by something, but who hit him? He thought back farther. He had been on a plane that morning. Heading… where? To a friend’s house. He was not in England. He had gone to visit someone on their birthday. Someone he hardly ever went to see this time of year. That narrowed it down quite well. Of course. He had come to have dinner with…  
“Ah, you’re awake.”  
The familiar voice sent a jolt through him. He lifted his head, chains clattering as he tried to pull free.  
“America! What happened? Did someone break in?”  
“No, no one broke in.”  
“Then how did I end up like this?”  
“I put you there.”  
“What?”  
England squinted, trying in vain to see the other man. It was still too dark, and his eyes hadn’t adjusted yet.  
“You? But… Why? What’s going on?”  
His host stepped forward and there was a click. Suddenly, a dim light was cast over the room, from a small lamp. The small light was enough to make him see this was a cellar. America’s cellar, to be precise. The one in his backyard, which he had been in a few times before. Looking around, it looked the same, except now there were spots on the wall for people to hang like… like a dungeon of old. He had been in dungeons before. France’s dungeon, several times, Spain’s a few less times. But… America? He had never been the type to take nations hostage. Humans, sure, every nation did. But never them. Never his own kind. He tugged experimentally at one cuff again, landing his gaze again on his captor. He attempted to look unafraid, even disdainful, rather than show how terrified he suddenly was.  
“What’s the meaning of this, America? I’ve done nothing to you. This is how you repay me for coming to see you?”  
“Oh yes, coming to see me one time this year. What an honor.”  
There was something different about him. Maybe it was that glint in his eyes, somehow very unfamiliar and cold, not the warm twinkle that had always been before. Maybe it was his smile, which looked almost the same as always, but slightly more crooked, slightly off. Whatever it was, it filled him with dread.  
  
There was silence for a few moments, while they stared at each other. And in that silence, England realized something. No one would suspect America of this. Even if someone realized he was missing, he would never be found. He narrowed his eyes, testing the cuffs carefully. Firm. He wouldn’t be able to break through without a significant amount of strength, and great damage to his arms and legs.   
“What will you do now?” he finally asked.  
America’s smile widened, and he reached over to turn off the light again. Once they were back in darkness, England tensed, straining his ears to hear what would be done. But… there was nothing. Soft footsteps sounded, getting softer until the front door opened and closed, and he was alone again. No explanation, no torture. He was just being left there. So why had America come in the first place?  _To frighten me,_  he realized.  _He wants me to know it was him, and then leave me here to think about why. He wants me to imagine the worst._  But even when he knew it, he couldn’t stop the thoughts that started to creep in. What would happen?  _Why_  was it happening? How did he suddenly wind up America’s prisoner? What had caused him to do this? What had happened to that sweet boy who had dreams as big as the sky itself?  
  
\- - - - - - - -  
  
England couldn’t keep track of the time, cut off from all light as he was. Had it been a day yet, or just a few hours? Or was he so uncomfortable that a few mere minutes had stretched out so long? He knew one thing, it must’ve been at least several hours since he’d been knocked out, since his stomach was growling. But without knowing how long he’d been unconscious, he couldn’t figure out how long he’d been aware, hanging there on the wall and shivering. The cellar was large enough and stuffed full enough that even if any light shone through cracks in the door, he couldn’t see it. But finally, his solitude was ended. The door opened, and someone stepped forward. The small lamp was turned on again, and America smiled at him.  
“Good morning!” he chirped, sounding just as he always had: Happy and friendly.  
England glared at him, not even bothering to tug at his bonds. It would only hurt him.  
“So I’ve been here a full day by now, have I?”  
“Mhm! I figured you were getting hungry, so I brought you breakfast!”  
“And I suppose you’re not going to let me down to eat it.”  
“You’re right.”  
America set the plate down next to him, and pulled out a spoon. He scooped up a bit of oatmeal, and held it up with a grin.  
“Open wide!”  
“You have got to be kidding me.”  
“Aw, c’mon, England. I can’t just uncuff you, so this is the only way.”  
His expression suddenly darkened, the smile smoothing into a straight line.  
“Unless you’d rather stick your face in the bowl, that is.”  
The change was scary. England was silent for a long minute, staring with wide eyes. Finally, he shook his head, and opened his mouth to be force-fed. It was humiliating, but…. That expression. On America, it was terrifying. He should never look like that. Even when he was upset, or mad, he never looked like  _that_. He ate every spoonful he was given, frightened into silence. America brightened immediately, and chattered about how the rest of his birthday had gone as he fed his captive. Many countries had come for his party, and none of them had been surprised England wasn’t there. Of course they weren’t… he hardly ever came. The thought of that event, over 200 years ago now, made him physically ill. Now and then, he forced himself to go, but no one was ever surprised when he didn’t. He internally lamented. He had been right, no one would suspect America…  
  
Once he had eaten every bite, America left him alone again. But this time, it wasn’t for as long. After what he guessed was an hour, he was approached again. This time, the light remained off.  
“I think I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.”  
“Oh, you’re going to let me go?”  
Of course he knew he wouldn’t be let go, but might as well ask anyway. It was better than asking  _oh, and how exactly will you torture me?_  America laughed quietly, and his laugh, too, sounded off.  
“No, not a chance. I’ve come to play a game with you.”  
“A game? Well, how fantastic. Is it a refreshing round of scrabble?”  
“No, it’s a game with this.”  
Before England could point out that he couldn’t see what this was, something sharp slashed his left forearm. He gasped in pain before he could stop himself, jerking slightly. He had known pain was coming, but he had assumed America would explain first. He grit his teeth, glad the light was off. America couldn’t see his expression. All he had to do was sound normal.  
“That was an asshole move.”  
“Well, I didn’t want to only turn on the light for a few seconds. It’s a waste of energy.”  
“Oh, your poor electricity bill would suffer so much.”  
“That’s right. Anyway, we’re going to play a game now.”  
“And what would that game be?”  
“I’m going to bet on how many cuts it takes you to pass out.”  
Arthur fell silent, blinking slowly. Such a blunt statement of torture, for no reason.  
“…Why?”  
“Because.”  
  
And that settled that. Arthur braced himself, but one could never really get used to torture, no matter how many times one suffered through it. He grit his teeth as America slashed his other arm, forcing himself not to make a sound.  
“Aww, c’mon, England. How will I know when you’ve passed out when you don’t scream?”  
“Sorry to disappoint. Besides, it hardly hurts.”  
“We’ll see about that.”  
Next, America slashed his left leg, right down the thigh. As pain lanced through him, he suppressed a whimper, jerking slightly again. Then came his last limb, the right leg. Once all four had been slashed, America started again from the beginning, with his left arm. England didn’t whimper until two gashes ran down each limb, and even then, it was a quiet sound.  
“Still awake, England?”  
“Rot in hell.”  
His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. Nine more wounds, and his consciousness started to fade. He was in a haze of pain, head lolling down as he struggled to keep his bearings.  
“You’re lasting longer than I thought.”  
He attempted to respond with a snarky comment, but all that escaped his lips was a wordless mumble. His head was spinning from the loss of blood, blood which trickled very uncomfortably down his body.  
“Maybe one more?”  
The sting of the knife had dulled, and all he felt when his right arm was slashed for the fifth time was a small tug of skin. Darkness welled up, nearly engulfing him, but he jerked himself back to consciousness out of sheer spite, and spoke in a faint whisper.  
“N-not… ye…t…”  
“Oh, I was wrong. Impressive! But the next one for sure.”  
He didn’t have the willpower to resist anymore. As his left leg was slashed again, he lost the struggle. Blessed numbness soothed the pain and closed his eyes. He lost consciousness halfway through America’s triumphant giggling.  
  
\- - - - - - - -  
  
He snapped his eyes open as soon as he awoke. The lamp was on, and America was sitting nearby, watching him with a smile. His chin rested in one hand casually, and his expression brightened when England awoke.  
“Oh, welcome back! I was impressed with you, England! You’re stronger than I thought you were.”  
“Naturally….”  
England looked down at himself with a frown, counting the slashes. Five on each limb except his right leg, which only had four. The gashes were long and deep, slicing through muscle and flesh. In one, he could see bone. Revolting, but it wasn’t like he’d never seen his own bones before. They pulsed with pain, but he refused to show it.  
“I expected you to keep stabbing me even after.”  
“Nah. It’s no fun when you can’t feel it, hm?”  
“Why are you still here, asshole?”  
“I’m going to bandage you, of course. It’ll take you longer to heal if you get infected, silly!”  
“Hmph. It’ll take less than a week either way.”  
“I don’t wanna wait a week.”  
England fell silent, pressing his lips into a thin line.  
“Okay, so hold still. I’ll disinfect them now.”  
The medicine he used on the gashes burned, and he wanted to writhe in pain, but he forced himself to stay still. Even like this, he had pride. It may very well be the only thing he had left. Pride had always been important to him, but now he was even more inclined to cling to it. Once the wounds were clean, America bandaged them with a surprising amount of gentleness.  
“There! All done. How’s it feel?”  
“Fuck off.”  
“So it hurts.”  
“No.”  
“Liar.”  
America grinned, standing up. He lifted a hand in farewell, and then turned away.  
“I’ll be back tomorrow! Sleep well!”  
“Eat a horse dick and choke on it!”  
“Love you too!”  
The light snapped off and the door opened and closed without further ado, leaving him in darkness not quite as comforting as unconsciousness.

\- - - - - - - -

England’s sharp anger faded almost immediately after he was left alone. The angry, offended front he’d been putting up crumbled, leaving behimd fear and uncertainty. Somehow, America had become a monster. He had just taken very obvious pleasure in torturing him, England, who was usually treated with happy care. He had stabbed and bled him without hesitation, even while  _laughing._  That was more terrifying than any dictator he’d met, or any rival who had once fought with him.  _What happened to my darling little brother?_  He swallowed thickly, feeling a burning sensation behind his eyes, and bowed his head. Whatever happened, he prayed it could be fixed. But something told him America would never be the same again.


End file.
